


This Is Something New

by ClydesPrettyBrownGirl (TomsDom)



Category: Paterson (2016)
Genre: Adam Driver - Freeform, Adultery, Black Character(s), Black Reader, Character(s) of Color, Eventual Smut, F/M, Romance, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-03
Updated: 2020-07-02
Packaged: 2021-03-04 21:16:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,484
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25043020
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TomsDom/pseuds/ClydesPrettyBrownGirl
Summary: When Laura leaves the country to be with her sick and possibly dying father for an indeterminate amount of time, Paterson is left alone for the first time since they were married. Attempting to adjust to the solitude as best he can, Paterson tentatively tries new things. Stumbling on a new thing right inside of his favorite bar, he spends a week in his life getting to know you more deeply than he's ever gotten to know any one person. As you grow closer, he pours his conflicting feelings about you into his new notebook. He misses his wife. But he thinks he might be falling in a different direction.
Relationships: Laura/Paterson (Paterson), Paterson (Paterson)/Reader, Paterson (Paterson)/You
Comments: 5
Kudos: 18





	This Is Something New

**Author's Note:**

> I had been inspired by a few fantastic writers of black reader fic for the various characters of Adam Driver's films. I just wanted to throw my hat into the ring because I sincerely believe that there are just too few writers writing reader fic that is either A) actually neutral enough for a black fan to truly put themselves into the story, or B) actually imbues relatable characteristics for a black fan to latch on to when reading any fic in general.
> 
> I started with Paterson, even though Clyde Logan is my favorite character of AD's, because not only is Paterson one of the best films in his filmography, but it is one of the best Jim Jarmusch films I've ever seen. And what struck me is that the character of Paterson is surrounded by a supporting cast of black characters. And I have never read a Paterson fic that really includes those wonderful characters in the narrative. The scenes in the bar were some of the best scenes in the whole film. Funny and representative of some of the only action in the film as well.
> 
> Most of the cast outside of Paterson and I think the little girl he talks to are actually characters of color. I think that makes this film one of the most unique, and it's a world I'd want to spend more time in.
> 
> So, here is my first attempt at a black reader for Paterson. The goal is to mirror the narrative style of the film. I hope it measures up. Enjoy.

**This Is Something New**

**A _Paterson/_ Black Reader fic,**

**By ClydesPrettyBrownGirl**

**One** : **Alone**

* * *

**Sunday**

_~ Paterson ~_

Slowly surfacing from the depths of sleep, Paterson registers the quiet of the early morning along with a tickling sensation brushing the skin of his prominent nose. Laura’s warm breath reaches his mouth and chin before the softness of her lips smooth over his own.

She’s awake before he is and kissing him. Her dainty nose nudges his as a cute, husky giggle escapes her causing another rush of warm breath settles over the lower half of his face.

“Wake up baby,” she whispers playfully, again prodding his nose with her own and gently pecking him, this time on the chin.

It’s early. Paterson blinks his eyes open and stares just past her, up at the ceiling. He waits a moment for his vision to clear before focusing his gaze on her beautiful face hovering over him.

He grunts “Good morning, honey,” before succumbing to a yawn that urges him to stretch his long limbs awkwardly beneath the blanket burrito she has him trapped in.

Laura laughs outright, though still rather demurely, removing her barricading arms from either side of him and stretching them into the air herself. She is slender and her reach can’t compete with his, but he marvels at how larger than life she seems as he sits up in front of her.

She is perched beside him on the edge of the bed, still wearing only a little pair of black and white striped panties and the satin black sleeping camisole he’d bought her for her birthday … what was it? Mmm, about three years ago now. She takes care of it. It’s the one article of clothing she hasn’t turned into a canvas.

Paterson’s honey-brown eyes, which are deep dark pools of drowsy interest, glance down the deep-v neckline and take in the sight of her perfectly shaped bosom and sprouting nipples in the early dawn chill. He looks back to her beautiful face, watching intently; she’s smiling sleepily and talking. He listens.

“My flight is in two hours honey. I thought about it and … will you drive me? You can have my car here, just in case.”

He doesn’t ask “Just in case what?” because he knows her well enough to know that she won’t have a real answer to that sort of question. She just wants him to have something he might need, even though she knows that he probably won’t. In fact, he probably won’t drive it at all. He can’t think of a reason why he would … except to go and pick her back up from the airport.

Whenever she can return.

What he says is “Ok honey,” and leans in to return her kisses.

He wants to pull her back into bed with him. A spontaneous, but very strong impulse. He follows the intense wave of affection and desire as it engulfs him, making his body warm. Moaning a bit, he seeks to part her lips with the tip of his tongue. She allows it, leaning into him with a contented sigh.

They’d made love all night, preparing for this. But still, he misses her already.

They kiss deeply, exchanging sighs and small noises of pleasure for a short time before she gingerly prises herself from the security of his embrace.

“Have to go! The security at the airport and everything. I don’t want to miss the flight.”

He nods and clears his throat, watching her bounce from the bed and onto her feet, moving around with more energy than he can fathom so early in the morning. He knows she's buzzing like a bee to keep from dwelling on their pending potentially prolonged separation.

> _Pending. Potentially. Prolonged. Separation._

Paterson moves his body to the edge of their small bed and throws his large feet over, setting them onto the carpeted floor. For a moment, he stares down at them, sinking his toes into the plush, and trying to will his limbs to relax and wake. He glances over at his watch on the nightstand.

Straightening his posture, he reaches over and picks it up, looking at the time, jaw working his mouth into a bit of a pout at the sight.

5:00 AM.

> _Pending. Potentially. Prolonged. Separation._

Laura calls to him from their small bathroom. He can tell she has her toothbrush in her mouth.

“Honey! Go eat your breakfast! I put the coffee on for you as well! I’ll be ready in twenty minutes!”

He clears his throat, takes a deep breath, and calls back “Ok, thanks, sweetheart! I’m up.” Putting on his watch, he stands, nodding resolutely to himself. “I’m up,” he repeats under his breath, taking a step away from their cooling, empty bed.

> _Pending. Potentially. Prolonged. Separation._
> 
> _Begins._

_____

> _As I watch her go_
> 
> _Waving goodbye to me with her smile_
> 
> _Through tears she thinks are hidden from me_
> 
> _I think that I might cry too_
> 
> _But as I wait and wave goodbye back_
> 
> _I don’t cry_
> 
> _I only watch as she turns away from me_
> 
> _Squares her small yet sturdy shoulders_
> 
> _And puts distance between us_
> 
> _For however long that distance will be_
> 
> _Or not be_
> 
> _Only time will tell me_
> 
> _Not the tears that I can’t seem to cry_
> 
> _For the absence of her physical presence_
> 
> _That I must contemplate_
> 
> _Until she returns_

Mostly, the day goes the way it might have gone if Laura were present. Mostly.

Except that he’s making his own meals and the smell of paint is nowhere to be found. Neither is the admittedly soothing sounds of clumsy acoustic guitar playing. He thinks of her saying “Shoot,” to herself under her breath whenever she makes a mistake and can’t help but lift the corner of his mouth in wistful amusement.

He’s making a sandwich for himself with nothing but the company of the hushed sounds of his aging home when Marvin wobbles his way into the kitchenette. The pudgy canine struggles his way up into Paterson’s seat at the small dining table. Paterson watches him with a furrowed brow, pausing the slather of olive oil mayo (Laura’s preference) onto a thick slice of bread. He disapprovingly clears his throat at the little beast.

He has to feed and walk Marvin, of course. He still feels bitter about the destruction of his … poems. Writing. His secret thoughts. But he has a new notebook now, so he tries to remember the fresh start he’s made. The words that are in his head now, he’ll need to write down soon before he forgets how to form them in a way that he likes.

Paterson purses his lips and sighs. Laura had told him to make copies of his old poems (he has to think of them that way or his heart will skip painfully in his chest), but he never had. He reminds himself, yet again, that she hadn’t thrown it in his face after what had happened. He’s happy about that. He appreciates it very much.

Silently, he finishes making his sandwich, glancing up at the dog every now and again. Words turn over in his head.

> _As I watch her go_
> 
> _Waving goodbye to me with her smile_
> 
> _Through tears she thinks are hidden from me_
> 
> _I think that I might cry too_
> 
> _But as I wait and wave goodbye back_
> 
> _I don’t cry --_

Marvin whines every time Paterson makes eye contact, licking his chops and adjusting his chins on the tabletop, squirming his butt and thumping his tail against the seat of Paterson’s chair.

The tall man across the room scoffs without looking back up from the sandwich he’s assembling.

“That’s not going to work on me. Laura fed you this morning, and this is _my_ lunch.”

His resonate baritone initially fills the space without much volume, but Marvin picks his head up off the table, ears perked, almost as if in disbelief. Paterson doesn’t normally speak directly to him unless they’re on a walk. They’ll get to that later; right now he wants the dog out of his chair.

He strides across to the table, covering the very short distance in less than a second. He holds his plate away from Marvin’s sniffing nose, jerking his head towards the living room.

“Out,” he commands, at a slightly louder volume. He hopes he’s exuding enough Alpha energy.

The dog barks, growls, and stares. Paterson stands his ground, staring back without blinking.

Finally, Marvin whines again and scoots down, wobbling back into the living room and crawling up into his favorite armchair. Paterson watches him until he’s settled, nods, and sets his plate down. Pulling the chair from the table, he takes a napkin and wipes the seat off before sitting down himself.

He eats his sandwich in peace while Marvin watches. The quiet doesn’t bother him so much. Not as he’s thinking of Laura’s laugh and bubbly chatter, reciting the words in his head as if to her. This is one he'd probably share with her.

> _\-- I don’t cry_
> 
> _I only watch as she turns away from me_
> 
> _Squares her small yet sturdy shoulders_
> 
> _And puts distance between us_
> 
> _For however long that distance will be_
> 
> _Or not be_
> 
> _Only time will tell me_
> 
> _Not the tears that I can’t seem to cry_
> 
> _For the absence of her physical presence_
> 
> _That I must contemplate_
> 
> _Until she returns_

After lunch, he disappears into the basement and writes the words down in a neat scrawl, pausing to make sure they make sense to him. He mouths them as he writes, picturing the scene that inspired them.

_____

When Paterson emerges from the basement, stretching from his stooped gait under the low ceiling covering his ascent up the stairs, he takes Marvin for a late afternoon walk.

He still doesn’t have enough Alpha energy to keep the dog from pulling him all over the neighborhood in defiance of his grumbling complaints.

As they pass the bar on the way back, Paterson stops dead in his tracks, having noticed that it’s … _open_. On a Sunday afternoon. That’s … not usual.

Marvin is yanking on him, but though Paterson doesn’t normally exert much will against the dog, he has a strong arm (years of expertly maneuvering the very large steering wheel of his bus) and they stay put. He ignores the little warning growls to glance over the entrance of the bar and make sure he’s not missing something.

He hears the faint chatter of people. The muted tones of gospel music from the jukebox. Laughing. Pool balls knocking around on the table.

Is it busy in there?

Marvin grows impatient and whines, but Paterson ignores him, stepping towards the entrance because this is new and he’s intrigued.

Suddenly the door bangs open and a laughing older black couple emerge with smiles on their faces, regarding each other affectionately and clutching bagged containers of … something that smells _amazingly_ good. In fact, Paterson can also smell whatever that heavenly aroma is wafting out of the door that swings shut behind them as they step onto the pavement he’s loitering on.

They notice him just standing there watching, and their smiles falter for a moment before the woman recognizes him.

“Hey, Paterson! How you doing baby?” She waves at him, and he blinks down at her vaguely familiar face.

A polite smile graces his features. He gently pulls Marvin’s leash to get the English bulldog to stop fidgeting. “Oh, hi, ma’am. I’m good, thank you. How are you all?”

The man scrutinizes him before turning back to his companion. “Who is this Tricia?”

She answers without hesitation. “That’s Paterson, my bus driver. He comes to Doc’s all the time, you ain’t never seen him?”

The man shrugs, turning back to acknowledge the sentinel form of the unassuming bus driver struggling to keep his dog still in the setting glow of the late afternoon sun. “Well hey there son. How you?”

Paterson mushes his mouth into a curved line and nods in greeting.

“I’m ok today, thanks. Uh, can I ask … what’s Doc got going on in there? Smells really good.”

As if to bring home that his interest in that smell is his main point of focus, his stomach growls almost loud enough to be heard outside of his own body. Marvin whimpers. He realizes it’s almost dinner time, and he didn’t plan for what he should make. He could order something and treat himself … unless his suspicions about what Doc has got going on a Sunday afternoon are correct.

The woman, Tricia -- who Paterson has now noticed is wearing what looks like Sunday best clothes and a large, ornate hat on her head -- exclaims with delight, holding her bagged container in front of herself and waving that delicious smell towards his face. He leans in slightly, unable to help himself.

“Doc’s selling Sunday dinner now! Right after church service, too! Isn’t that nice?”

 _It’s pretty late for “right after church service”_ , Paterson muses, taking this information in with a furrowed brow. He looks from the container of food, up to the side of the building, and sees a new sign over the door. It says **“Kitchen Now Open”** he realizes after the fact.

“Huh,” he marvels out loud to himself. To Tricia and her companion, he asks: “So, he’s serving food at his bar? On a … Sunday?”

It’s not like he doesn’t know what Sunday dinner is. That’s not new. Food at Doc’s bar, _that’s_ new. Doc’s bar being open on a Sunday, and in the afternoon? That’s _definitely_ new. Paterson didn’t even know Doc _had_ a kitchen back there.

The man speaks next, amused by Paterson’s seeming befuddlement.

“Yeah, son. Got himself a nice lady cook back there too, so you know the food being made right! Doc is trying it out to see if folks like the new menu, then he might make it a full-time thing. Go get you some! It’s going fast.”

The man looks about ready to move on after imparting that bombastic endorsement, placing an eager hand on the small of his companion’s back and ushering her in front of him.

“Good evening Paterson! Go try some of Doc’s food! The cook is pretty good for such a young thing!”

She waves at him as they pass, practically skipping down the street in the direction he’s just come from.

He waves back. “Oh, ok! Good night.” He’s certain she can’t mean ‘young thing’ in the somewhat condescending way it sounded. People are funny about age.

Paterson looks down at Marvin, who has grown bored with the struggle of trying to get him to keep moving. “Well, Marvin what do you say? Dinner at Doc’s tonight?”

No answer is forthcoming.

_____

_~ You ~_

This is looking like it might be the _last_ order you gotta make. At least for a little while. You hope. The after-service crowd seems to have cleared out. And it looks like Uncle Barry _cleaned up_.

You can’t help the very large, shit-eating grin that breaks across your face. You were right! You’d told your uncle ( _Doc_ , everybody calls him around here) that this was gonna work. He hadn’t believed you. Fought you tooth and nail. Well, argued with you well enough.

But he’d never had the tiny kitchen taking up space in the back of his bar torn out to make more room for an outdoor drinking space like he said he would. Man has been talking about doing that _forever_. He could hardly afford it, though, what with patronage slowing down and all but drying up the way it has. It was an empty threat and a flimsy rebuff.

He had just been afraid of the _idea_.

“This here is a backwater dive bar baby, people ain’t gon wanna eat a thing outta here besides nuts! Believe me, I tried!”

Uncle Barry has always been so spirited, yet good-natured with his habitual rejection of your plans to help grow his business beyond what it's currently (barely) surviving as. Always a 'no' with a smile and a joke.

But when your auntie told your mama that he’d “borrowed” her savings from her without permission to keep the lights on while he tried to win chess tournament prize money to pay her back _and_ pay the mortgage … well …

You knew you had to come down from struggling in New York working dead-end, underpaying waitressing jobs to try _one more time_ to convince your uncle to let you cook in his kitchen. Your culinary degree and book of personal recipes were burning up for the chance to show their worth.

You have something to prove. To yourself. Your family. And it looks like that just might happen now.

You have only been here a little over a month, cleaning and prepping the kitchen for a comeback. You worked during the day, while the bar was closed. You begged, borrowed, and practically stole -- cashing in favors your uncle hadn’t collected to get “new” used kitchenware and equipment to replace those that had fallen into disrepair due to age and ill-use.

Every day you got up early, made the hour-long commute from Bedstuy, Brooklyn to Paterson, New Jersey, and worked. You cooked your recipes for your aunt and uncle to try for a menu you were putting together. It was then, your uncle really started to believe in this idea wholeheartedly. He fell in love with your cooking, almost making your auntie jealous.

“Girl! Why haven’t you ever cooked like this for us before?” You could practically see the dollar signs dancing in their eyes.

All you could do was shrug. These recipes had been your secret. Kept in your secret book while you worked to pay off your student loan debt in someone else’s kitchen. Maybe you never thought they were good enough to share with anyone until someone gave you a chance to believe in your talent and skill.

But now?

Auntie Mae had taken some flyers that Doc made to her church service every Wednesday bible study and Sunday service for a few weeks now. People had been skeptical. Even rude. What good Christian would want to eat a dirty dive bar? Well, the ones that tried your fried salmon cakes, mac n’ cheese, and coleslaw sample platters sure seemed to want to.

And today had been the test. Opening day of the new kitchen in the back of Doc’s bar!

“Y/N’s Kitchen,” Doc tells everyone who comes in the door, handing them a small paper menu and telling them to sit wherever they please. He even got one of the women who usually frequent the bar during the evening to help out a little with taking orders during the rush until you all can afford to hire someone more permanent. Marie is her name. Cute, smart, and full of energy. She has hair like yours, only not as grown out and colored with blonde highlights instead. You get the feeling this is some of the most excitement she gets in a day. You get that feeling about almost everyone who passes through that rickety old door.

The men drink and flirt and the women gossip. And everybody eats. It reminds you of some of the family gatherings you used to have when you were younger.

Just when you think the last order has finally been served to the after-service crowd (it must be nearing 6 PM by now), and make to take off your apron, you hear your uncle exclaim a name in pleasant surprise through the order window.

“Heyyyy! Paterson my man! What brings you in? Didn’t expect to see you.”

Blowing your shrinking, sweat-dampened curls out of your face, you continue removing your apron, toss it onto the cutting counter, and go over to the order window. You peer out of the small makeshift square hole with a rough ledge (for sitting hot plates on to pick up) so you can see what’s going on.

Doc had some local boys cut what you refer to as "the peephole" into his precious wall because you wanted to be able to see the number of tables and people you had counting on you to keep your shit together back there while you worked on your own. It also came in handy for eavesdropping on local gossip.

Now you pop your face out for a look-see at the newcomer.

It looks pretty cleared out from your point of view. There’s one pair of old men playing chess in the front corner by the door, wedged between the wall and the jukebox. The twins are still playing pool at the table back here near your peephole. You’d fed each of them already.

But … you blink and raise your eyebrows.

There’s a tall white man dressed in fitted dark denim jeans, a plain white t-shirt, black canvas high-top shoes, and a slate-grey bomber jacket ambling with an easy, pigeon-toed gait towards one of the bar stools. His neatly cut, wavy, jet black hair covers his ears, an errant lock of which falls over his forehead as he bends his already slightly stooped body forward to sit down in front of your uncle.

The man smiles widely, showing off a top row of crooked white teeth, as he extends one large paw made up of a wide palm and long slender fingers to shake Doc’s hand in fond greeting. His hand practically swallows your uncles. For a second your brain doesn’t really compute that, because Uncle Barry has the largest hands you’ve ever seen on a man. Except, this man’s hands have to be at least twice that size.

What’s even more surprising about this stranger, is that when he opens his mouth to speak, his voice -- though smooth and deep -- is almost too gentle to be heard over the Mahalia Jackson trumpeting out of the modest speaker system the jukebox is hooked up to.

“Hey, Doc. You serve food now? On Sundays?” He seems nonplussed.

You watch your uncle puff his chest out proudly and stand up straight, slapping the bar with a happy grin just like the one you were wearing for yourself moments ago.

“Sure do!” he laughs, winking at the man sitting in front of him. “How about that?”

The white man -- Paterson, Doc had called him -- nods slowly, lightly tapping the bar with the tips of his fingers. You can’t really see anything but the side of his face now, but he looks like he’s smirking a bit. He takes the thumb of his right hand and scratches at his jaw.

“Yeah, how about that?” he replies thoughtfully.

Doc snaps his fingers and turns around to grab one of the paper menus from the short stack he keeps by the register. He places it in front of Paterson when he turns back around, leaning over it with his elbows down on either side of it. He looks from it to Paterson and back again.

“What you say Paterson? Want a bite to eat? Try it out. You’re a regular, so I need to know if this’d be your kind of thing. Know what I mean?”

You can’t help but take in the scene with fascination. It’s almost … intimate.

You know your uncle well, and you’ve seen him interact with everyone that has come through those doors. You’ve seen him navigate his relationships with people and friends in the neighborhood with generosity and ease. Your uncle has always been an open, friendly, personable man. It’s why he runs a bar for a living.

But this … this is sort of astonishing, to say the least.

Paterson doesn’t lean back away from Doc’s physical proximity. He just inclines his head towards the menu, taking in the shortlist of items you’d painstakingly drawn up like he’s scrutinizing a work of art. You can see his mouth forming the names of your dishes with interest.

Doc watches him read the menu almost as intently as you watch the two of them from your small square peephole.

“Uhhh, yeah this is, pretty good looking Doc. It smelled good before I came in, too.”

Doc stands up off of his elbows and smacks the bar again. “Good! You hungry? Pick something and it’s on the house for you!”

Your eyes almost bug out of your head at that. _On the house_? Who is this Paterson man? Your uncle is a cheapskate. He doesn’t do free _anything_. And you’re the one who has to cook it, not him! Damn, you were hoping you could take a break for a few hours.

The man clears his throat and makes to protest: “Oh, no, Doc, you don’t --”

Doc shakes his head and face like a dog ridding it’s coat of water, talking over Paterson’s meager protest. “Nope, nope, nope, nope! On the house Paterson, that’s my word! Now, what’ll it be?”

Now you can see the slight crimson creeping up the man’s neck from the collar of his jacket. When it reaches his cheek, he chews on his bottom lip a bit, studying the menu again rather than look directly at your uncle.

“Um, ok, sure Doc. I’ll have the oven-fried chicken, I guess? With the mashed potatoes and gravy. Uhh, and the biscuits too, please. I hope that’s not too much.”

Doc shakes his head no, snatching the menu off the bar before his friend can change his mind.

“Damn boy you _are_ hungry. You know, I didn’t think you eat? My wife says you’re too skinny and she can learn your wife how to feed you properly if you want her to.”

The man Paterson clears his throat and sort of chuckles at that.

“Oh, she’s … uh, she had to go back home to Tehran for a little while. Her dad’s sick. I couldn’t go with her because I have to work so,” he pauses, shifting on the stool as if he doesn’t quite know how to finish that thought. “I haven’t eaten dinner yet.”

It sounds melancholy, and you no longer want to listen.

You pull your head back from the order window and turn to survey your kitchen. Sighing, you eyeball your apron across the way, waiting for you to don it again.

So your last order will be for a melancholy white man whose wife is far away and unable to cook him dinner. If you think about that too hard, it might bring your triumphant mood crashing down.

You hear your uncle say “Well alright my man, we’ll get you fixed up with a good supper. Stay right there. I’ll come back and pour you your usual, on the house too.”

What the hell? Did this guy save Uncle Barry’s life or some shit? You _have_ to know.

Paterson barely gets out another “Oh, Doc you don’t have to --” before your uncle is pushing his way into the cramped kitchen, handing you the menu that he hastily circled his friend’s choices on. You forgot that Marie has already left for the day about half an hour ago. But your uncle is back here for another reason besides personally delivering this man’s order to you.

“Hey baby girl,” he addresses you in almost a hushed whisper, which makes you frown while you grab your apron and tie it back on.

“Yeah Unc? Who’s that man?” You don’t even try to pretend like you don’t know there’s a large white man sitting on the front stool at the bar who’s getting a free meal _and_ a free drink. The consternation is written all over your face.

Doc jabs his thumb back at the door he just came through, his own bushy eyebrows shooting up in surprise. “That’s Paterson,” he says this like you should know that.

You give him your best “ _And_?” blank-faced stare.

He waves the menu in the air between you, offering it in lieu of a response to your pointed look.

“He’s a good friend and I want him to try your cooking. His wife is lovely, but she ain’t feeding that boy right. Here. He needs cheering up. Your food’ be just the trick.”

You roll your eyes and snatch the paper from him, even though you don’t need it. Everything just needs proper reheating. It was all fresh made this morning but had gone pretty fast. He’s lucky you still have a couple of servings of everything, or he’d be shit out of luck for dinner.

Doc doesn’t even register your slight attitude, which to tell the truth, really perplexes you.

“Thanks baby girl! If we get Paterson in here every Sunday, I’ll take it as a sign we can keep going with this thing we got.” He places a hasty smacking kiss on your forehead and heads back out to the bar.

You roll your eyes, trying to figure out why his fondness for this man is getting under your skin. Chalking it up to your waning adrenaline, you get to work on the last order of the night.

_____

_~ Paterson ~_

He’s sure Marvin is out there chewing on his own leg. He himself has been inside the bar for what seems like ages. His belly is full. He’s slightly buzzed. He’s laughing at Doc tell tall tales about how he was a visionary to see the potential for serving food out of this hole in the wall.

The kitchen is closed by the time Paterson has shoved the last, still piping hot and delicious bite of smothered chicken ( _thigh_ , not breast), mashed potatoes, biscuits, and gravy into his mouth. He had eaten like he was ravenous. It was kind of the best and most flavorful thing he’d had in a long time. It gives him a bit of a pang to think about. An image of Laura’s cute, expectant face watching him gingerly taste something she’s set before him hovers in his mind’s eye for a moment. He registers an anxious pang in his chest before dispelling the memory.

He doesn't want to give himself a chance to start missing her until he's home. Alone.

Just then, the sound of the kitchen door creaking open, and the faint smell of cleaning chemicals reaches his senses and shakes him from thoughts of his faraway wife.

Doc stops talking mid-sentence and looks over at the young woman emerging from back there. Before he looks over himself, Paterson registers the way Doc’s face lights up like a Christmas tree at the sight of her.

“Speak of the angel now!” Doc exclaims, opening his arms.

Paterson is sure Doc wasn’t speaking of an angel just now, but himself. Nevertheless, he turns to acknowledge the new presence.

He finds he doesn’t have the words to adequately describe what looking at her stirs in him. He feels caught out. Maybe a little nervous. Scrutinized by her.

> _Words fail me_.

He thinks, and maybe it’s the start of something. Or the title of something.

Her facial expression hovers somewhere between wary and patiently put-upon. Big, dark brown eyes dart between him, sitting motionless, and Doc who is moving to scoop her into his embrace.

“Hey, baby girl, I want you to meet my good friend Paterson. Paterson,”

The man in question peel’s his eyes away from the slowly advancing figure, housed in black-denim cut-off shorts and a crisp white graphic tee that reads **“The Chef’s Compliments to the Chef”** , in order to train them back on Doc’s happy countenance.

“This is my niece, the talented young lady who just cooked you the best supper you ever had my man!”

Paterson lets out a nervous laugh in acknowledgment, swallowing thickly afterward.

> _Words continue to evade my discovery._

Maybe that’s the first line.

He blinks and sucks in a breath, nodding at the young woman politely as she saunters behind the bar and hugs Doc with a humoring shake of her head. He tries to be subtle about watching the way her curls bounce atop her forehead as she does.

Paterson releases his breath when at last she smiles, playfully shoving out of Doc’s embrace, and extending her hand. He looks down at it, instantly understanding that his own will swallow it whole. But, first discreetly wiping the sudden light sheen from his own palm before taking the one proffered, he looks back up at her with a faint smile in return.

“Hi,” she says politely, “I’m Y/N. Nice to meet you Paterson. Was the food good?”

Holding her soft hand, he feels that her grip is strong. He can also make out that wariness on the edges of her tired but pleasant expression. He shakes her hand once, then pulls his own back, giving her space.

“Hi, nice to meet you Y/N. The food was --”

> _Unforgettable._
> 
> _I am full_
> 
> _And possess a weight_
> 
> _That is both light_
> 
> _And leaden_

This is entirely different than the way it wanted to begin. And he realizes that as he’s thinking, the silence he’s emitting hangs there between you all, thick and unsettling.

He watches the pleasant expression the young woman has fixed to her becoming features shift incrementally with each passing second. He doesn't recall ever watching a face _fall_ before, and endeavors to stop it from happening in front of him.

“-- amazing,” Paterson finishes, just slightly above a whisper. He nods to himself, reassuring that the word is the best one to use. He means it. “It was -- yeah, really amazing. Like Doc said. The best supper I’ve had, in a … in a while.”

> _I've found a word. One word. And it’s a good one, I think._

Paterson can tell by Doc’s wincing scrutiny that he too is trying to figure out if it’s sincere. He takes a chance to check in on the woman’s falling face and breathes a sigh of relief when he sees that it stopped its downward momentum.

What he sees there now is contemplative; assessing.

“Thanks,” is all she says to him after a beat.

Patterson rubs his palms on his denim-covered thighs.

“Well, we’re just doing Sundays for now," she continues on, lighter than before, "but it’s good to know people are liking it. I told my _uncle_ \--” here she pauses to poke an unsuspecting Doc in the belly. He jumps a little and rubs the spot, “ --- that this would work! And I was right!”

This breaks the tension. Paterson opens his mouth and laughs. Not because it’s all that funny. But because he’s relieved.

______

_~ You ~_

You and your uncle talk to Paterson for a little while. He seems nice. Introspective and of few words. He’s handsome in a way. Broader up close, and taller when he stands to take his leave.

He taps the bar with the knuckles of his left hand. You notice the gold wedding band on his ring finger. It almost looks too small for him.

You’d been sitting on the stool next to his, watching him closely as he interacted with your uncle. He asked you questions about your cooking, which led to a discussion about your training and how this hair-brained idea to operate a kitchen out of Doc’s bar even occurred to you.

He’s a good listener. Doesn’t interrupt or tune out. Your manner eases around him with each passing minute.

You watch as he removes a bill from the wallet he’d pulled from his back pocket, lazily arguing with Doc about at least giving a tip for the beer and the meal and the conversation.

As your eyes move from his wedding band, up his forearm (where you can see the outline of modestly defined muscles flex a bit under his jacket with their task) across his neck, strong jaw, prominent nose, and finally, his dark eyes. His hair has fallen there again. He swipes the loose fringe from his forehead once he’s replaced his wallet, having successfully managed to lay a $20 on the bartop.

The man called Paterson purses his lips and zips his jacket closed, finally shoving his hands in his pockets.

“Better get Marvin home,” he says to Doc. You get the feeling he’s avoiding your gaze.

“Marvin?” you inquire, wanting to see the honey color one more time before he takes his leave. For some reason. _His eyes are kind_ , you tell yourself. That’s nice to be the focus of.

He rewards you by turning his gaze on you again, at last. “Oh, uh, my wife’s English bulldog. He’s outside on a leash,” he pauses, thinking. Or, _remembering_ something more like. His expression seems far away.

On his wife, probably.

You feel a little … less jubilant.

“I hope,” he finishes abruptly. He takes his hands out his jacket pockets and gives you and Doc an awkward double wave before you can open your mouth to ask him what on earth he means.

“‘Night Paterson,” your uncle says easily, shaking his head and chuckling to himself as he wipes down the bar. He pushes you the $20 bill. “Here, Y/N, you definitely earned that.”

It’s not much, but you’ll take it, because he’s right. You fight the tiny urge to turn back towards the door when you hear it open and close after your uncle’s good friend.

“Is … his name really Paterson?” you ask to both distract yourself from the lack of his physical presence, and satisfy your curiosity about the man.

“Yeah,” that’s all your uncle says before picking up Paterson’s remarkably clean dinner plate and disappearing into the kitchen.

You look towards the door after all.

_____

_~ Paterson ~_

Marvin is so tuckered out, he has to carry the fat dog home.

Paterson thinks, watching familiar scenery pass him by as he moves through his neighborhood. It’s still early, but he’s tired too. Tired, but humming with an undercurrent of … something.

What a remarkable afternoon. Completely unexpected.

> _Unforgettable._
> 
> _I am full_
> 
> _And possess a weight_
> 
> _That is both light_
> 
> _And leaden_

He’ll have to write the words down before he retires for the night. What else can be discovered? How would he describe how he feels, if he were to recount it?

> _Unforgettable._
> 
> _I am full_
> 
> _And possess a weight_
> 
> _That is both light_
> 
> _And leaden_
> 
> _But also safe and warm_
> 
> _Where solitude can’t find me_
> 
> _As I walk slowly home_
> 
> _Dog in tow_
> 
> _Dragging the edges of contentment_
> 
> _In the marrow of my bones_
> 
> _And trying not to think_
> 
> _Of returning again_
> 
> _To taste my fill_
> 
> _Of satisfaction_

He enjoys going to the bar after work. But, he thinks, Sundays …

> _Sundays can be something different._
> 
> _Something new._

He rounds the corner and walks the short distance to his home. Up the path and the front steps, and he stoops to deposit his heavy load onto the welcome mat. Marvin lays there in a heap, waiting for the front door to be unlocked and opened.

Paterson does so, stepping inside. He doesn’t call out that he’s home, remembering that he exists there, for the foreseeable future, utterly alone.

_____

**Author's Note:**

> This is a slow burn that includes adultery. I really like Laura as a character, even though she has some annoying quirks. I believe Paterson loves his wife. And the relationship he builds with reader/you won't be easy to come by. I hope you can hang in there with me.


End file.
